


to be alone with you

by kyliewrites



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, my trademark tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 19:06:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8908423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyliewrites/pseuds/kyliewrites
Summary: Just a boy and the girl he likes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> a little one-shot that i wrote when i was on a second-person pov kick. takes place during/after jackady  
> i hope u enjoy

**i.** _You have her smile._

She looks a bit bashful, and a bit confused, because her lips are too full and your mother’s smile is too angular to cut and paste on her skin, superimposed above her teeth. She doesn't know that you meant how her eyes crinkle with kindness or how her grin gets so wide she could fit the moon inside her mouth. You don't tell her that it's because she smiles with meaning, because she doesn't know the taste of forced politeness when it hooks under her lips and pulls them up into a grimace, she doesn't know how  _ yes, father _ can roll off her tongue with fear instead of love. 

She saves the day, of course, with you right by her side. The day is melting as you say your goodbyes, sunlight spilling onto buildings and turning them into golden giants. Out of the corner of your eye, you see her bring a hand to her lips, tracing the shape of her mouth with her index finger.

Her eyes are so tender and something inside you breaks.

**ii.**   It's midnight and you're curled over a controller, mindlessly smashing on buttons. As you’re impaled by your opponent’s lance, you wonder idly if Marinette has beaten the game yet. She's always been unsettlingly good with the combat stuff, navigating her way through levels with devilishly strategic moves and just a hint of rashness. She reminds you of Ladybug in that way, and it’s not for the first time that you think that maybe Marinette would've been better suited to be her partner, wrapped up in black and carrying a ring on her finger. You restart the game, pounding on the buttons more insistently this time.

It's hard to forget self-loathing.

You've died for the third time when there's a soft tap on glass, so quiet and timid you wouldn't have even noticed it if not for Plagg zooming into the nearest cupboard. Your eyes meet scarlet, craters of black melting into the night outside. The universe is in those blue eyes, illuminated by the glow of your TV.

_ Can I come in?  _ She asks, voice muffled by the glass.

Against all rational thought, you nod.

**iii.**   Ladybug proves to be just as exceptionally good at video games as Marinette, naturally. You sit next to her in silence, trying to focus on the screen and not how she smells like warm bread and vanilla, how her eyes shine like jewels in the harsh light of the monitor, how her knees are pulled in close to her chest like she’s hiding.

She closes her eyes as the screen notifies her of her victory. Her eyelashes sweep against her mask and her lips pull down into a frown. You’ve always thought her frown was adorable, a perfect curve to display her annoyance, or contemplation, or steely anger. But this frown is different. The hunch of her shoulders mirror the bend of her mouth, her eyes are shut in what looks like resignation and...defeat? This is not the Ladybug you know.

_ I’m so tired of being afraid,  _ she says when you ask what's wrong.

_ Of what?  _ You ask.

She gestures towards herself, towards the red suit and polka dots and mask.  _ Of who I am without this. _

You nod, understanding. You know a lot about being an image to sell, about being unmade and painted and put back together like a mosaic of glass. Sometimes you don’t even feel like a person anymore.

_ Do you want to stay a while?  _ You ask, and she nods, too, giving you a tentative smile. Your heart clenches.

_ Yeah,  _ she says,  _ I would. _

**iv.   **Her mask is pressed into your skin, the curve of her wrapped around your body. Fast asleep. It’s three in the morning and if you could sleep too, you would, but you're too aware of her, breathing and alive, clutching you like you’re her only source of oxygen.

You've imagined this before, sometimes swapping out Ladybug’s suit for civilian clothes, the warmth of her right next to you, at peace and unguarded. You never imagined you would feel guilty for it, but the feeling rises up nonetheless, swallowing you whole and spitting you out with disgust.

She's not interested in you. Not when you're under the freedom of a mask, not when you let loose from this cage that is your name, your face, your existence. You dread the coming morning. You think ahead to when the sun rises, when she'll become a stranger again, or to the next evening, when you'll joke and pun and laugh with her, but keep this night locked behind your teeth like a bittersweet taste. You think ahead to when this, whatever  _ this  _ is, will end, and you have to snap yourself back to reality to escape the preemptive heartbreak. 

She’s here. You're here. Right now, you're with her, and for once you'll let yourself shrug away the names that follow you. Not Adrien Agreste. Not Chat Noir. Just a boy and the girl he likes. You close your eyes, and feel her breathing as you succumb to sleep.

You dread the morning, but it comes anyway.


End file.
